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Library  of  the 
University   of  North  Carolina 

Endowed  by  the  Dialectic  and  Philan- 
thropic Societies. 


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HISTORICAL  INCIDENTS. 


What  "Our  Women  in  the  War" 
Did  and  Suffered 


By  MRS.  F.  C.  ROBERTS. 


BEAUFORT: 

ST.    PAUL'S  SCHOOL  PRINTING  DEPARTMENT. 
1909. 


Cp  °170.   ^ 


HISTORICAL   INCIDENTS 


What   "Our  Women  in  the  War"  Did  and  Suffered. 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  REFUGEE. 

Before  attempting  to  write  the  life  of  a  refugee 
it  is  necessary  to  touch  briefly  on  the  causes  that 
led  to  that  life.  Naturally,  women  clung  to  their 
homes,  naturally  they  would  shrink  from  giving 
up  thair  comforts  and  luxuries  for  a  life  of  trial 
and  hardship.  The  women  of  New  Bern'  were 
compelled  to  do  so.  Situated  on  broad  rivers,  that 
afforded  easy  access  to  gunboats,  Burnside  select- 
ed this  as  early  as  March,  1882,  as  a  strategic 
point,  easy  to  capture,  easy  to  hold,  and  affording 
pleasant  and  comfortable  quarters  for  his  army. 
■In  those  days  the  country  was  in  a  state  of  intense 
excitement;  all  the  young  men  had  enlisted  for 
th?  war,  leaving  only  such  as  were  incapacitated 
by  age  or  infirmities,  to  constitute  the  "Home 
Guard"  and  to  defend  the  town  in  case  of  an 
attack.  These  old  men  were  called  on  to  throw 
up  breastworks.  Being  too  feeble  to  shoulder  a 
musket,  they  were  constrained  to  handle  a  spade. 
Slight  as  our  defenses  were,  we  had  an  abiding 
faith  that  the  justice  and  sanctity  of  our  cause 
would  be  our  safeguard.  The  women  were  not 
idle,  all  were  busy  making  clothes,  or  knitting 
socks,  or  making  cartridges  and  flags.  All  were 
ready  to  sacrifice  their  homes  and  their  dear  ones 
for  their  loved  Southland.  Early  in  September, 
1861,   Hatteras   fell.     Fort   Macon  followed.     We 


were  now  reduced  to  our  local  defenses.  Besides 
the  breastworks  on  land,  obstructions  and  tor- 
pedoes were  sunk  in  our  rivers .  We  had  not  long 
to  wait.  On  the  15th  of  March,  1862,  Burnside 
began  his  attack.  Confederate  troops  were  sent 
to  meet  him,  and  might  have  succeeded  in  driving 
him  off,  but  there  were  traitors  among  us.  His 
gunboats,  were  piloted  safely  around  the  obstruc- 
tions. It  was  even  said  that  our  guns  on  land 
were  so  mounted  as  to  be  worse  than  useless.  Our 
men  fought  bravely,  but  against  two  great  odds. 
It  is  impossible  to  convey  any  idea  of  the  horrors 
of  a  battle  to  those  who  have  never  been  near 
enough  to  hear  the  guns.  All  day  the  battle 
raged.  It  was  reported  that  the  veay  last  train 
would  leave  for  Goldsboro  at  11  a.  m.  This  wes 
to  convey  the  sick  and  wounded  from  the  hospitals 
to  a  place  of  safety.  Women  and  children  hasten- 
ed to  the  depot.  No  train  came.  All  day  long 
and  until  11  at  night  they  waited.  Little  children 
cried  from  hunger  and  women  sat  with  pale  fixed 
faces,  listening  to  the  heavy,  deep  sound  of  can- 
non and  the  sharp  rattle  of  muskets.  Perhaps  it 
is  harder  to  sit  inactive  and  know  that  our  loved 
ones  are  in  eminent  peril  than  to  face  danger. 
Our  husbands  and  brothers  were  under  fire,  and 
every  report  seemed  to  rend  one's  heart-strings. 
At  11  p.  m.  the  long-expected  train  came.  The 
night  was  dark  and  there  was  a  heavy  rain  storm. 
The  cars  were  soon  crowded  to  soffocation  by  the 
sick  and  wounded  from  the  hospitals,  and  such 
refugees  as  could  find  standing  room.  With  lit- 
tle frightened  children  clinging  to  them,  and  with 
vP  only  such  baggage  as  could  be  taken  in  their 
jv»  hands,  these  heroic  women  began  their  strange 
^      lives,     At   the  first  station,  then  called  "Moseley 


Hall,"  I  got  out  to  wait  for  the  fighting  to  cease 
that  I  might  return  to  my  home.  I  little  thuught 
how  many  years  it  would  be  before  I  saw  that 
home  again.  I  stood  with  my  babies  and  their 
nurses  in  the  pouring  rain  till. all  were  dripping 
wet.  A  kind  Samaritan  offered  us  shelter  for 
the  night.  We  wrapped  our  little  ones  in  blankets 
and  hung  their  clothes  to  the  fire  to.  dry.  The 
bag  containing  a  change  of  clothes  was  also  wet 
through. 

On  the  16th,  Burnside  entered  the  town.  A  train 
ventured  down  to  remove  our  retreating  army; 
this  was  shelled.  Our  men  in  retreating  set  fire 
to  the  town  in  many  places.  Ladies  stood  on  the 
streets  with  food  and  water  for  our  famished  men. 
It  was  reported  that  some  <~»f  these  men  were  killed 
when  the  enemy's  guns  were  turned  on  the  town. 
A  friend  (Dr.  C.  F.  Deems)  met  us  (my  sister, 
Miss  H.  G.  Cole,  and  me  at  Moseley  Hall  and 
offered  to  take  us  to  his  house  in  Wilson  for  a  few 
days,  till  we  could  make  other  arrangements;  we 
gladly  accepted.  Some  trunks  of  clothing  and 
some  boxes  of  bedding  had  been  sent  to  Goldsboro 
some  days  befere;  these  we  collected  and  took 
with  us.  I  wras  glad  to  wait  for  a  short  time  be- 
fore moving  on.  My  husband,  adjutant  of  a  regi- 
ment, was  in  the  fight  and  had  not  been  heard 
from.  We  were  offered  an  asylum  with  relatives 
in  South  Carolina.  We  packed  up  and  went  to  the 
depot,  only  to  be  informed  that  the  trains  were 
moving  troops,  and  passengers  were  not  allowed. 
Poor  refugees!  deprived  of  homes  and  home  com- 
forts, there  seemed  no  resting  place  for  them! 
Our  friends  were  most  kind,  but  we  felt  how  in- 
convenient it  was  for  them  to  keep  us.  We  were 
compelled  to  remain.  The  oldest  boy  of  the  family 


was  teaching.  He  was  anxious  to  enlist,  and  I 
offered  to  take  his  school  till  a  teacher  could  he 
found.  I  have  been  "face  to  face  with  a  part  of 
Sherman's  army,  and  not  a  nerve  was  shaken, 
but  when  I  confronted  this  room  full  of  grown 
boys  my  heart  sank.  They  were  gentlemen  and 
gave  me  no  trouble.  The  poor  boy,  Theodore 
Deems,  who  had  enlisted,  fell  in  his  first  battle. 
From  the  school-house  I  was  called  to  the  sick- 
room. My  little  children  had  been  exposed  on  the 
cars  to  all  sorts  of  diseases.  One  after  another 
developed,  and  for  weeks  they  were  at  death's 
door.  We  found  a  vacant  house  in  Louisberg. 
The  farm  was  rented  by  a  "free  man  of  color'* — 
but  the  house,  reported  to  be  haunted,  was  vacant. 
Collecting  our  belongings,  we  packed  them  in  one 
wagon  and  our  convalescent  children  in  another, 
bade  farewell  to  our  kind  friends,  and  in  true 
imigrant  style  began  our  journey  across  the 
country.  The  first  wagon  went  through  safely. 
The  second  broke  down.  Our  driver  rode  into 
town  for  relief.  Night  came  on,  and  I  sat  on  the 
roadside  and  made  a  wide  lap  and  held  all  the 
children  for  some  hours.  At  midnight  we  reach- 
ed our  home.  We  had  no  matches,  and  we  simply 
waited  for  daylight.  We  were  getting  used  to 
waiting.  With  daylight  came  a  most  welcome 
and  unexpected  invitation  to  breakfast  from  our 
co-renters.  Such  a  delicious  breakfast  as  we  had! 
Though  we  left  silver  on  the  table,  we  have  been 
paying  for  that  breakfast  40  years.  The  debt  is 
not  yet  cancelled,  for  Aunt  Sallie  still  lives.  Busy 
days  followed.  We  had  to  furnish  our  house.  We 
had  bunks  made  of  rough  planks  for  our  feather 
beds.  Think  of  the  comforts  of  feather  beds  in 
the  summer!    We   were  refugees,  and  our  bunks 


were  hard!  Our  boxes  were  converted  into 
lounges  and  tables  and  bureaus  and  washstands. 
All  were  draped  and  upholstered  with:  homespun. 
We  bought  six  chairs.  And  after  Mrs.  Johnson 
presented  us  with  a  carpet  and  a. pair  of  andirons 
for  the  nursery,  we  felt  as  rich  as  Crcesus.  Our 
life  in  Louisburg  was  a  very  happy  one.  From 
our  neighbors  we  received  unflagging  acts  of  kind- 
ness. We  had  no  horse,  but  we  drove  to  church 
every  Sunday.  We  kept  no  cows,  but  our  children 
always  had  milk.  We  had  no  gardens,  but  our 
table  was  supplied  with  vegetables.  My  children 
have  bee i  taught  to  ve.iarat-i  th.2  names  o:'  Hawkins, 
Hill,  Malone,  Williams,  Lewis,  Johnson,  fiaton. 
Jones  and  others.  None  are  forgotten.  We  had 
only  to  say  our  prayer,  "Give  us  this  day  our  daily 
bread,"  and  it  came.  Sometimes  we  were  a  little 
extravagant.  A  gentlemen  dined  with  us  and  we 
had  our  two  days'  dinner  in  one  day.  Meat  and 
greens  and  apple  dumplings.  The  next  day  we 
fasted.  Such  extravagance  deserved  punishment. 
In  spite  of  some  cares  and  privations  and  anxieties 
about  our  loved  ones  fighting  in  Virginia,  I  look 
back,  after  40  years,  on  my  life  in  Louisburg  as  a 
bright  spot  in  memory.  The  enemy  was  advancing 
on  Mobile,  getting  between  ,  us  and  our  Alabama 
plantation.  Feeling  that  our  servants  would  need 
our  care  and  protection,  we  decided  to  bring  in 
those  who  wished  to  come.  We  bought  a  small 
farm  in  Warren  county,  near  the  Virginia  line; 
After  an  affectionate  farewell  to  our  many  friends, 
we  tied  our  precious  feather  beds  in  sheets,  packed 
our  new  possessions  in  trunks,  and  taking  our  six 
chairs,  left  our  "furniture"  behind.  Again  we  en- 
gaged two  wagons.  .  One  came.  This  we  filled 
with   our  goods.     The  overflow   was  left  for  the 


second  wagon.  The  five  servants  went.  The  two 
little  boys  begged  to  be  aliowed  to  ride  on  the 
trunks  with  Allen  and  Sam.  As  their  black  mamies 
were  with  them,  and  as  we  expected  to  follow  im- 
mediately, we  consented.  All  day  long  we  waited 
at  the  door  with  our  belongings  tied  up.  in  our 
usual  emigrant  style,  but  no  wagon  came.  We  un- 
packed, put  our  babies  to  bed,  built  a  fire  and  made 
biscuits,  which  we  baked  in  the  spider,  and  coffee, 
which  we  boiled  in  the  coffee  pot.  Heavy  rains 
came  on.  The  roads  became  impassable.  For  a 
week  we  camped,  we  cooked  and  nursed,  and 
"waited  for  the  wagon."  Our  kind  friend,  Mr. 
Jones,  came  to  releive  our  minds  of  anxiety  about 
our  little  boys.  They  were  the  only  children  of  a 
widowed  sister,  entrusted  to  our  care.  He  had 
them  at  his  house  and  he  invited  us  to  go  home 
With  him  for  a  few  days.  We  gladly  accepted  his 
invitation.  Our  visit  was  a  delightful  one.  It  was 
soon  after  Annie  Lee's  death.  We  visited  her 
newly-made  grave.  Our  first  impressions  of  our 
new  home,  "Forest  Cottage,"  were  not  very  favor- 
able. We  found  everything  in  a  dilapidated  con- 
dition. My  husband  had  come  home,  as  we 
thought,  to  die  with  consumption.  He  could  no 
longer  ride  his  horse  or  stand  a  day's  march.  He 
converted  his  gun  into  a  plowshare  and  his  sword 
into  a  pruning  hook.  We  were  ignorant  of  country 
life.  In  Warren  the  public  sentiment  was  against 
refugees.  We  were  unfortunate.  Our  cattle  died, 
our  hogs  strayed  off ,  our  poultry  was  stolen.  Pro- 
visions were  not  plentiful.  Our  neighbors  refused 
to  sell  to  us  for  our  negroes  on  the  ground  that 
they  had  not  enough  for  themselves.  We  were 
not  discouraged,  for  we  were  confident  if  we 
could   tide  over  the  first  year  our  little  farm  would 


8 

support  us.  Finding  the  servants  dissatisfied  with 
my  manner  of  dealing  out  the  meat,  J  called  them 
together  and  divided  all  there  was  among  them, 
according  to  the  size  of  their  families.  I  told  them 
that  with  economy  it  would  last  till  our  hcgs  were 
fattened  and  our  beeves  ready  to  kill.  I  left  none 
for  ourselves.  We  lived  on  peas  boiled  without 
meat.  To  this  day  I  loathe  the  smell  and  taste  of 
peas.  In  six  weeks  I  ate  nothing  but  berries. 
These  were  more  to  my  taste  than  corn  bread,  peas 
and  rye  coffee;  my  poultry  consisted  of  an  old 
drake,  a  great  grandfather.  A  friend  (Dr.  Deemes) 
came  to  dine.  Taking  the  children  aside,  I  said  to 
them,  "The  old  drake  will  be  killed  to-day;  you 
must  not  say  one  word  about  it  at  the  table.''  But 
when  the  savory  smell  came  up  the  stairs  it  was 
too  much  for  the  small  boy.  He  sprang  up,  clap- 
ping his  hands,  and  called  out,  "There  comes  the 
old  drake/'  it  was  very  tough  eating.  Our  life 
on  the  farm  was  a  very  happy  and  a  very  busy 
one.  We  hired  all  the  men  out  but  just  enough  to 
cultivate  our  fields,  and  to  do  odd  jobs  around  the 
house.  I  trained  the  young  women  as  house  serv- 
ants, cooks  and  nurses,  and  found  homes  for  them. 
We  planted  sorghum  and  boiled  our  own  syrup;  we 
had  a  cider  press,  a  tan  vat  and  a  loom  made. 
Leather  was  tanned  and  wooden  soles  made  on  the 
place.  We  all  had  wooden  bottomed  shoes  made 
out  and  out  at  home.  I  learned  to  weave,  and  be- 
fore the  year  was  out  I  had  put  on  the  warping 
bars,  and  woven  350  yards  of  cloth.  We  planted 
indigo  and  made  blue  die.  From  sumack  berries 
we  got  a  good  black  die,  and  from  walnut  hulls 
pretty  brown.  Thus  I  varied  my  stripes  and  plaids. 
Our  life  was  not  entirely  without  excitement. 
Among   the   little   negroes  there  were  30  cases  of 


measles,  followed  by  as  many  of  whooping  cough. 
These  I  tended  myself  as  we  had  no  physician  near 
us.  One  servant  was  bitten  by  a  mad-dog.  One 
of  our  children,  thinking  he  saw  a  terrapin  on  a 
hen's  nest,  reached  out  for  it,  and  was  bitten  by  a 
high-land  moccasin.  One  little  girl  was  caught  on 
the  horns  of  a  cow  and  tossed  in  the  air.  Another 
child  fell  in  the  fire  and  was  badly  burned.  And 
then,  when  fishing  with  a  hair-pin  in  the  tan  vat, 
one  fell  in  and  narrowly  escaped  being  drowned. 
It  taxed  our  ingenuity  to  meet  the  demands  of 
Christmas.  By  cutting  paper  dogs,  horses,  cows 
and  birds  and  laying  on  cake  made  with  sorghum, 
we  had  quite  a  fine  display.  Home-made  candy 
and  groundpeas  served  to  fill  their  stockings.  Rag 
dolls  and  home-made  toys  delighted  their  hearts. 
On  Christmas  morning  the  little  ones  went  from 
cabin  to  cabin  with  a  simple  gift  for  each  child  on 
the  farm.  Our  Christmas  cake  was  made  of  dried 
cherries,  dried  whortle  berries  and  watermelon 
rind  for  fruit.  We  had  lemonade,  made  with  citric 
acid  and  essence  of  lemon.  My  brother  brought 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Patterson  to  spend  this  Christmas 
with  us.  I  had  my  little  boy  and  30  little  negroes 
baptized.  My  little  Jimmie  was  just  11  days  old. 
The  most  remarkable  thing  about  our  establish- 
ment was  our  turnout.  The  mules  were  not  .well 
matched,  Big  Jim  would  have  made  two  oi  his 
companion.  Our  carriage  was  a  second  edition  of 
the  ''one-horse  shay."  We  drove  into  Warrenton 
every  Sunday  to  church.  At  the  foot  of  every  hill 
carriage  and  harness  literally  dropped  to  pieces 
and  had  to  be  tied  together  with  straps  and  strings. 
Cato  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  driving  such  an 
equipment.  He  insisted  that  we  should  get  out  at 
the   edge  of   town  and  walk  to  church.     I  had  one 


10 

dress  and  one  hat  for  two  children.  One  Sunday 
the  little  boy  wore  them  to  church  and  the  next 
Sunday  they  were  worn  by  the  little  girl.  The  last 
year  of  the  war  we  were  more  comfortable.  Just 
as  we  were  beginning  to  live  in  some  comfort  the 
end  came. 

One  day  a  party  of  poor,  ragged,  depressed  look- 
ing men  in  gray  straggled  in.  On  taking  them  in- 
to the  parlor  they  saw  my  husband.  They  were 
his  men;  he  was  their  captain.  The  meeting  was 
a  touching  one.  With  tears  streaming  down  their 
faces  they  said,  "Captain,  we  are  all  that  are  left." 
They  gave  me  their  tent,  saying,  ''This  is  all  we 
have  to  offer."  Taking  out  a  crumped  paper,  they 
handed  it  to  their  captain  asking  him  to  read  it, 
It  was  an  account  of  Lee's  surrender.  They  bow- 
ed their  heads  in  their  hands,  and  we  all  wept.  To 
them  and  to  us  this  seemed  the  end  of  all  things. 
Still  living  in  dread  of  Sherman,  we  hid  and  buried 
our  treasures.  I  called  the  servants  together  and 
mounting  the  fence  I  made  my  first  and  last  stump 
speech.  I  spoke  to  them  kindly,  reminding  them 
of  the  close  tie  that  had  bound  us  togother  for  200 
years,  of  how  faithfully  we  had  always  performed 
our  duty  towards  them,  and  of  how  they,  too,  had 
always  been  faithful.  I  told  them  the  tie  was 
broken,  we  had  no  longer  any  claim  on  them.,  and 
that  at  that  moment  they  wre  free  to  leave.  They 
seemed  deeply  affected  and  their  spokesman  asked 
for  time  to  think.  The  next  morning  they  called 
us  out.  Moses,  speaking  for  all,  &aid  they  wished 
no  change  for  the  year,  and  when  the  time  was 
out  would  we  be  their  friends  and  advise  them 
what  to  do.  By  referring  to  a  journal  kept  at  that 
time  I  find  that  when  my  husband  was  away  from 
home   I   took   my   children  out   in  the   fields  and 


11 

superintended  the  men,  and  that  I  gave  my  per- 
sonal attention  to  all  the  work  of  the  farm.  I 
remember  how  I  enjoyed  it.  Not  many  days  after 
this,  just  after  Johnson's  surrender,  suddenly  our 
fences  were  torn  down  and  from  all  quarters  men 
in  blue  coats,  on  horses  and  on  foot,  poured  in  on 
us.  Our  place  was  alive  with  them.  I  was  stand- 
ing at  my  garden  gate  holding  my  little  child's 
hand.  Two  men  dashed  up  to  me  so  close  that  I 
felt  the  breath  of  their  horses  in  my  face.  I  felt 
no  fear  of  them.  Calmly  I  looked  one  after  an- 
other from  head  to  foot.  Silently  they  turned  and 
rode  off.  No  recollection  of  the  past  comes  to  me 
so  vividly  as  that  of  Sherman's  invasion.  I  seemed 
to  see  the  grove  alive  with  blue  uniforms.  I  see 
my  poor  husband,  helpless,  hopeless,  seated  on  a 
.  stump  with  a  group  around  him  calling  him  '  'old 
man, "  and  boasting  of  the  dreadful  acts  of  vandal- 
ism they  had  committed,  and  demanding  food  for 
man  and  beast,  I  seem  to  hear  my  husband  calling 
to  the  servants  to  show  'these  men''  around  the 
place;  they  found  the  hen-house,  the  barns,  the 
smoke-houses,  the  store-rooms  all  empty.  Even 
"Big  Jim"  was  missing.  After  eating  the  bark  off 
of  the  inside  of  his  stall  he  had  become  discouraged 
and  had  wandered  off  into  the  woods  and  died. 
The  crows  that  came  to  feast  on  him  flew  away 
hungry.  Finding  nothing  to  steal,  the  Federal 
soldiers  for  once  were  honest.  They  took  nothing. 
Had  they  lifted  my  baby  from  her  rough  home- 
made cradle  or  peeped  into  rat  holes,  or  dug  in  the 
mustard  bed,  they  would  not  have  gone  off  empty- 
handed.  Our  wealthy  neighbors  did  not  escape  so 
easily.  The  long  line  of  empty  carriages,  the  droves 
of  cattle  and  of  living  things,  proved  that  the  war 
was  over.     Sherman  meant  to  finish  his  worK.  His 


12 

men  had  been  too  well  drilled  in  committing  depre- 
dations to  leavp  off,  simply  because'Lee  and  John- 
son had  surrendered. 

We  remained  on  our  farm  till  fall.  Then  we  sold 
out  such  things  as  we  had  collected.  We  had  just 
enough  to  pay  our  expenses  to  New  Bern.  I  do 
not  use  the  word  home,  I  had  no  such  place.  My 
home  was  in  ashes.  rJ  he  war  was  over.  The  reign 
of  terror  began.  The  heaviest  trials,  the  darkest 
days  of  my  life  opened  before  me.  They  do  not 
belong  to  this  story.  I  have  tried  to  tell  something 
of  the  life  of  a  refugee.  The  excitement,  the 
novelty,  the  many  expedients  resorted  to  made  it 
full  of  interest.  In  my  old  age  it  is  the  period  of 
mv  past  I  love  to  recall.  I  seem  to  remember  all 
the  pleasant  things.  And  if  there  were  any  dis- 
agreeables they  are  forgotten.  Our  friends  were 
kind,  our  children  were  happy  in  the  freedom  of 
their  country  home.  I  was  lifted  above  the  petty 
cares  of  life  by  an  enthusiastic  love  of  country.  As 
I  could  not  serve,  I  could  suffer  and  wait.  I  feel  I 
have  failed  in  conveying  a  true  idea  of  the  life  of  a 
refugee.  I  have  done  my  best.  Pardon  the  length 
of  this  article. 

I  must  write  one  incident  of  my  life  of  a  refugee. 
Our  friend  and  neighbor,  Mrs.  Tom  Carroll,  invit- 
ed us  to  dinner;  we  had  just  seated  ourselves  at  the 
table,  had  just  inhaled  with  a  long-drawn  breath 
the  delicious  odor  that  filled  the  room.  Our  plates 
had'  just  been  filled.  I  had  taken  part  of  every- 
thing on  the  table,  ham,  pig,  turkey,  vegetables  of 
all  kinds,  and  every  variety  of  condiment.  I  had 
feasted  my  eyes  and  raised  my  knife  and  fork  to 
enjoy  this  wonderful  dinner,  when  looking  across 
the  table  I  saw  my  husband  had  fainted.  With  a 
lingering,    longing    look  behind,  I  left  the  table  to 


13 

perform  my  wifely  duty.  The  faint  was  a  long 
one;  he  said  it  was  caused  by  the  surprise  of  ham 
meeting  turkey,  and  both  such  strangers.  When 
I  returned  to  the  dining  room  dinner  was  over.  My 
hostess  fared  sumptuously  every  day ;  had  she 
ever  known  hunger  she  would  have  put  my  plate 
aside;  instead,  she  handed  me  a  plate  of  pickles, 
saying,  "We  always  eat  pickles  after  ice  cream." 
Ice  cream!  Insult  to  injury!  The  loss  of  that  din- 
ner haunted  my  waking  hours  for  many  a  month, 
and  that  ice  cream  became  a  night-mare  that 
banished  sleep. 

The  last  of  the  crushed,  disappointed  and  dis- 
heartened men  who  returned  to  us  was  my  broth- 
er, Major  Hugh  Cole.  At  the  very  beginning  of 
the  war  he  had  marched  off  to  Virginia  at  the  head 
of  a  gallant  company.  Returned  alone;  he  had 
been  one  of  those  Who  had  constituted  Mr.  Davis' 
body  guard,  had  been  at  the  last  cabinet  meeting, 
and  when  his  beloved  President  was  captured  he 
had  ridden  off  to  join  the  "last  man  and  the  last 
dollar"  patriots  across  the  mountain.  He  brought 
with  him  a  valuable  souvenir.  Mr.  Davis,  in  part- 
ing with  his  officers,  devided  among  them  a  little 
gold  he  had  with  him.  My  brother  devided  his 
share  ($30)  among  the  children  of  the  family, 
giving  each  one  a  little  gold  dollar.  This  they 
prize  more  than  any  of  their  possessions.  Not 
enough  has  been  written  on  the  faithfulness  and 
devotion  of  the  negroes  of  the  South  during  the 
war.  I  collected  them  on  Sunday  evenings  and 
taught  them.  Our  children  taught  them  to  read 
and  write.  And  we  had  the  church  service  and  a 
sermon  for  the  older  ones  on  Sundays.  Their 
affection  and  devotion  to  me  and  my  little  ones  was 
beautiful.     How    often  have  I  stood  at  my  nursery 


14 

door  and  listened  to  Uncle  Remus  and  the  little 
boy.  This  is  what  I  saw.  A  big  fire  of  logs.  In 
one  corner  dear  oid  Mammy  with  her  spotless 
turban  and  apron,  \\  ith  her  baby  in  her  arms,  Un- 
cle Remus  and  the  little  boy  in  front  of  the  fire. 
These  two,  Mammy  and  Uncle  John,  occupying  the 
only  chairs,  on  a  row  of  soap  boxes — the  other  nurs- 
es with  the  little  white  faces  pressed  against  the 
black  ones,  the  little  white  baby  arms  around  black 
necks,  and  on  each  side  of  Uncle  Remus  (John)  the 
two  larger  boys,  and  at  his  feet  his  own  grandchild- 
ren. All  listening  to  "Brer  Rabbit"  stories.  But 
when  it  came  to  the  "Tar  baby"  mammy  must  tell 
that.  No  one  else  could  do  it  justice.  Mammy  ru1- 
ed  supreme  in  the  nursery,  all  had  to  obey  her.  The 
rest  of  the  house  was  mine,  but  the  nursery  was 
hers.  The  close  friendship  between  Uncle  Remus 
and  the  little  boy  (Uncle  John  and  little  Marse  Jack) 
was  very  beautiful.  If  Uncle  John  split  rails,  Marse 
Jack,  three  years  old,  had  his  wedges  and  malls  and 
split  rails  too.  If  Uncle  John  ploughed,  Marse  Jack 
held  the  reins.  When  an  uncle  came  home  wounded 
Uncle  John  made  the  crutches  that  Marse  Jack 
walked  on  till  the  wounded  uncle  threw  his  aside. 
And  none  grieved  more  sincerely  than  Uncle  John 
when  little  Marse  Jack  fell  asleep.  In  a  strange 
land,  deprived  of  their  comforts  and  luxuries,  hav- 
ing barely  enough  to  eat,  these  negroes  served  my 
husband  and  myself  as  cheerfully  and  as  uncom- 
plainingly as  though  tney  had  never  left  their  homes. 
Often  I  was  alone  on  the  farm  with  them  and  I  felt 
perfectly  safe  and  secure.  I  knew  they  would  take 
care  of  me  and  mine. 

Mrs.  F.  C.  Roberts, 

New  Bern,  N.  C. 


00032771046 

This  book  must  not 
be  taken  from  the 
Library  building. 


fS7 


Form  No.  471 


